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Homecoming. Neu Ungren, year 548 al-Elinima, or 1162 AI.
A large room on the top floor somewhere in the Old City. The smaller of the two windows is open, showing a view of a mottled sea of roofs in various degrees of disrepair, struggling to deflect a torrential rain from the heads of the occupants beneath. Behind the wall of rain is the faint but unmistakable silhouette of the Cathedral of Angels. It is impossible to make out the sun beyond the veil of dark grey, or indeed, the time of day. The room is very simply furnished, but the sheer fact that the roof doesn't seem to be leaking says a few good things about the wealth of this household. In the middle of the room is what may have once been a large embalming table. Nearly seven feet long, it takes up most of the room, dwarfing the two wooden chairs and the small sofa by the window. The table is covered with a mess of spectacular magnitude consisting of stacks of cardstock, small scraps of various kinds of leather and fabrics, an array of small powder boxes, several dozen small bottles with mysterious contents, lists and diagrams scrawled on pieces of parchment, several frayed old maps, three or four fat leather ledgers and a large candelabra. The only thing strangely absent from the table is dust, suggesting that perhaps this is indeed a peculiar kind of order, rather than a proper mess. Reigning over all of this is a lovingly polished contraption that allows for controlled manipulation of a number of magnifying lenses. The sole occupant of the room is a boy of seventeen or so. His lips pursed, he is completely engrossed in what looks like an elaborate kind of bookkeeping. He views little silk handkerchiefs through various combinations of lenses and periodically bends down to make a mark in one of the two ledgers in front of him. The boy is disheveled, but with traces of fashionable grooming dating back several hours. His hair was at some point coiffed and tinted with indigo, but is now simply pulled back and loosely tied with a ribbon. His silk necktie is hanging in a limp bow at his collarbone, and his shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and spattered with ink. Hanging off the back of the other chair is a coat of bright blue silk, embroidered with a downright obnoxious pattern of seahorses. The boy's breeches are equally blue, but thankfully less decorated. There is a sound of entry coming from the hallway outside. The rush of the rain gets louder and then subsides as the front door is once again closed. There are muffled sounds of a struggle, accompanied with a couple muttered curses directed towards the guest's boots. Finally, two thuds indicate the man has prevailed over his rebellious footwear. The door to the room opens to let in a young man of thirty, with a dripping boat cloak hanging off his arm. Underneath the cloak his clothes are a fine velvet, of rich maroon colour with a gold trim. It is an old-fashioned ensemble, but still in good condition, suggesting he doesn't wear it often. The man's hair is dark brown, appearing almost black now that it is wet. In contrast, the bottom of his face is covered with a stubble of the most ridiculous orange colour, looking entirely out of place. The boy speaks without raising his head off his work. "You are early." Before the man has a chance to respond, the door opens once again to let in an elderly gentleman, dressed in a night shirt and holding a candle. The gentleman's face lights up with a smile. "Mas---" "Yup, he's early. Arrived around midnight, but came off the ship four hours ago." The boy picks up another handkerchief and lays it down in front of the contraption. "Would--" "No, he would not like any eggs, he ate at his mother's." "Oh!" The elderly gentleman nods, not in the least bit surprised to converse in this fashion. "How fares the missus, sir?" "He didn't see her, because she had already gone to bed. But ummmmm... he sat downstairs with the cook for a little while, and had leftover duck. With cranberries." The young man nods appreciatively at the boy, rubbing his chin. The elderly gentleman raises a finger. "Perhaps---" The boy nods from his post in front of the table. "Oh yes, a shave would be most welcome. He hasn't shaved since noon three days ago, and not for a lack of trying. My money is on turbulent seas." The elderly gentleman nods and turns to leave. "I thought so. I will get the water started." The man hands his cloak to the elderly fellow. "Actually, it can wait if you would rather go back to sleep." "Oh no, sir, it is no bother. I was quite awake already." "Could it be because our young friend was entertaining miss Daphne Corradino before he was interrupted by the view of me coming down the street? The boy at the table smiles and turns beet red, suddenly looking a lot busier. The elderly gentleman smiles also, and leaves without a comment. "A passionate girl, miss Daphne, and loud. But I am thankful you were able to persuade her not to utilize the table..." The man with an orange beard strolls past the table, flipping the covers on the ledgers and righting a few toppled bottles. He finally sits on the other chair, facing the open window with the Cathedral view. "Don't you think it is maybe a little bit excessive, my friend?" "What is?" "Well, five different girls in six days... And you are falling behind on our work. It was Carnivale, so I'm willing to be understanding about it, but still..." The boy bends over his work even more diligently, but his smile shows no remorse. "Six." "Six!" The boy grins. "Six. But I'll give you that one, cause of the twins." "My point still stands. Impressive work, by the way, and how did you know about the cranberries?" "Dined there yesterday, before the party." "Cheat." "Thank you, sir, learning from the best." The man smiles, but only with his eyes. His mouth seems to be unused to smiling. The boy finally looks away from his work. "You missed a great Carnivale, as always. Remind me again why you choose to go on this ill-timed crossing every year?" "Because it is at most six weeks long, because my father has never been willing to sail it, and because I am thus freed from any other nautical obligations." "But you're missing Carnivale!" "Well, that is why I have you to relay the most relevant bits in a condensed report." "Which do you want first? Business or news?" The elderly gentleman reappears, carrying a steaming basin of water and a towel. He sets the basin on the edge of the table, soaks the towel in it and lovingly drapes it over the man's face. The voice now comes through a little muffled. "Both, but in order of increasing urgency. Go on." "The Duke got a cuckoo Magyr child dropped on his doorstep a month ago. The kid looks about ten, maybe a bit older, you never know with highborn girls. Apparently she just marched up the steps and knocked on the door of his house one morning and demanded too see the Duke. I wasn't there, of course, but I have it on good authority she presented him with birthright papers, indicating she is a Takac, plus 50 unshaven ducats and a vaguely worded letter from the mother, saying she'll be back in a year and would you please keep her safe thank you." "Who is the mother?" "Bollocks if I know, and that says a lot. She signed her name as widow Takac, and nobody saw her. Rickard is suspecting the papers are bogus, but it'll take some time to check. Until then he has placed the kid with Lady Viktoria, who has gone mother hen over the poor angel. Nobody quite knows what to think of this." "Takac is a bit ambitious for a fake... What about the kid herself, did anyone ask her about where she's from and how she ended up on that doorstep?" "Oh, I'm sure they tried, up until Lady Viktoria spread her protective wings over the girl, and told everyone to shove their questions. Since then she has been keeping her safely locked up and preoccupied with all those proper lady lessons her Gertruda never took to. Gustav is useless as an information source so far, since the kid apparently only speaks Magyr, and she's a couple of years too young for him to put in the effort. The only thing I managed to find out is she sailed in from Bardia, on the Chervez-Tervelie ship, alone as far as anyone can tell." "What does Gaius say?" "Again, bollocks if I know, he didn't exactly stay to be interrogated. He, in fact, never even made it off his ship. Anchored out in the bay to the east like he always does, gods forbid he dirty his boat with the city boatyard. Offloaded the goods, took in water and was gone in two days before anyone had a chance to talk to him. The girl went to the western bank by dinghy with Gaius' eunuch and was escorted across the bridge to Nob hill, where, I assume, he waited until she was let in. That is all I know and it stinks." "It does. But it hasn't been made our business." "No, not yet." "Go on." "On an unrelated note, Daniela Parvi has auctioned off the old house on Small Fez shortly before Carnivale. It was kind of sad... The Salver-Chervez bought it, of course. It has been an eye-sore for them for three generations, to see their cousins across the square." The man with an orange beard sighs, as the hot towel is removed from his face. "I suppose that makes sense..." "Yes, and that is what's odd about it, because Daniela is not known for doing things that make sense. I saw her at the auction, she was sober. And courteous. Pretty much unrecognizable. Sober, and courteous to everyone, including the Salvers. And she was on speaking terms with her father. And that was just the beginning. She used the money to buy a spot at the boatyard plus work and materials, paid up in advance for an entire year." "What good is a spot in the boatyard? There's no way she'd be able to afford a ship, even after the sale, to say nothing about a router." "She can't, but a ship is exactly what she's buying. The lady has got herself a Mysterious Financier." The boy wiggles his eyebrows and assumes an enigmatic air. "Her father? Or brother?" The man turns his lips inwards as to avoid swallowing the suds that now cover his beard. "Tsk. If that were the case, it wouldn't be a Mysterious Financier." "Father or brother acting through a proxy?" "Not their style, but that's what everyone else thinks. I just happen to know that old Orso was trying to discreetly find out whether she is in any kind of trouble, so it's not them. She's asked him for political support in the case she returns alive. She's planning on charting her own router." "Interesting news. Good news..." "But not our business." The boy nods. "Not yet." the man nods as well. "Which brings me to the actual business." "To whom do we owe this pleasure?" "The younger Lady Espiere." "How unusual. Go on." "You have no idea. So, as you know, Lady Espiere hosts a grand gala each year at the Mint, one night after Elena Mastelli's famous party. And you can only imagine the amount of espionage and backstabbing that accompanies getting absolutely top notch entertainment for those nights - I can tell you that it's more intense than some navigatorial houses." "I am assuming you have enough self respect not to make that our business?" "Of course. This is more interesting." "Mm." "Do you know who Militza is?" "Should I?" "Right, I am forgetting who I am talking to. Militza is a dancer, from upriver. She made it big in the city three years ago, when Elena discovered her and brought her over to dance at her party. She is very good -- she has that special dance that she does, where she dances around a bonfire, leaps over it and makes it flare up at the right times by throwing what I'm pretty sure is a mixture of sulfur and iron shavings into it. It looks impressive to the right audience." "Mm." "The trouble with Militza is that she's a bit of a one trick pony. Elena made a mistake last year of hiring her again, but she came back with more or less the exact same number. So this year, Elena dropped her from the show, leaving the girl to try out for less prestigious venues. So it came as a surprise to everyone when news came out that Lady Espiere has hired her, with that same tired bonfire act." The man with half of an orange beard closes his eyes and tilts his head back, letting the elderly steward get a closer access to his chin. "Keep going." "So sure enough, they set up a bonfire in the square in front of the Mint, the guests get to watch from the stairs, and I manage to snag a spot pretty close on the square itself. Militza starts with her usual thing, even the music is the same. Says something about the city during Carnivale, doesn't it, when the sight of a pretty girl dancing is no longer enough... Then Militza leaps over the bonfire, while the bonfire flares up, as expected, but then as she does so, another figure leaps out of the fire on the other side, like a mirror image. And now there's two." "Did she throw it in?" "Huh?" "The sulfur. Did she throw it in as she jumped." "No... I don't know. Maybe." "A mistake on your part, not to notice. Now your mind has placed it in your memory, and there's no way of telling whether it actually happened. If you expected it to happen, it happened as far as your recollection is concerned. How many times will you need to learn this lesson, mm?" "It was--" "The Carnivale, I know. Keep going." "So the second dancer leaps out of the fire, and that's when things get interesting. She's the same height, same hair, same dress as Militza, but everything looks washed out and white, as if covered in ash. And she mimics all her moves perfectly, except that..." "Mm?" "Except that she's good, sir. Not just usual good, not like other dancers are good. I mean really truly--" "--Good?" The man's eyes smile again, looking sideways at the youth. "You're mocking me." "You are an easy target." "Well, you weren't there. There is no other way to describe it. And it wasn't just me who saw it, everyone there was affected the same way. It is as if every movement had a life of its own. We all saw those same moves the year before and the year before that, but we all watched them again as if they were completely new. And I swear... the more awed the crowd was, the better she got. And it wasn't just she, Militza got better too, so much so that you'd think her previous performances she did with her feet broken." "So, there was a surprise performance at the Mint. And it was good. What makes it our business?" "What happened next." The boy takes a deep breath and speaks rapidly. "The ash dancer turned into a bird made of fire and disappeared into thin air don't look at me like that!" The man doesn't look at him at all, but at the Cathedral in the window, slowly emerging from the shroud of abating rain. "I want you to tell me slowly, what you think you saw, what you think you know, and how you think you know it." "Her arms caught on fire first. All at once, and not from the bonfire, because she was sufficiently far away. I felt the heat, but I did not smell any burning flesh, nor did I see the fire cause any damage. Furthermore, the fire did not burn up like it should. It burned big, and it shaped itself into the form of giant wings that were slowly unfurling. And then, there was a loud abrupt cry, which did not seem human, but if it were, I suppose it could have been that of a girl. But there was a cloud of ash where the dancer was before, and out of that ash came a large bird, made entirely of fire. It was hot, it smelled of sulfur and... some other smell I cannot place, and it was as real as you are. And then it flew, around the fire, and then up, higher and higher, until it disappeared." "Disappeared?" "Like it never has been. One moment it was there, and the next moment there was only a glowing blind spot in my eye, like the kind I get when I look at the sun. Once the blind spot was gone, we all saw that uh... you know that fresco of Fez on the facade of the Mint, pointing towards the sea?" "Mm." "Well, it changed, sir. There was a bird drawn on his arm, a fiery bird. Beautifully painted. It's uh... it's still there, sir." "And what about Militza? Certainly this was rehearsed." "That's just the thing, it wasn't. She never expected there to be anyone else. And uh... I think I may have forgotten to mention. Militza is blind, sir, has been from birth. She felt there was someone else across the fire from her, but didn't even realize what was happening when it happened." "And Lady Espiere? Surely she had planned this, otherwise she would never have hired the girl in the first place." "This is where it gets even more interesting. A week before the night, Lady Espiere received an anonymous letter, advising her that if she hires Militza, the result will be nothing short of spectacular, but the burden would be on her to ensure that no innocent girls get into any trouble with the Church. At first she thought it was another one of Elena's tricks, so she did her own intelligence, and found out that it wasn't. The Church comment intrigued her, so she went through with everything. Hired Militza, ordered the bonfire to be setup, and also graciously and subtly warned the brothers that whatever happens is entirely smoke and mirrors. Obviously, she got Militza out of the city that very night. But Lady Espiere still doesn't know what happened, or how. And now she's worried, which is why she sought me out." The elderly gentleman finishes the procedure and leaves with the same indomitable silence with which he entered, exchanging nods of mutual appreciation with the newly shaven owner of an unsmiling mouth. "So what do you think happened?" The boy shakes his head. "I have no clue. I've been trying to puzzle it out ever since. I did find a small trap door underneath the bonfire, or rather, a draining hole that leads down into the sewers -- and that explains how the other dancer could have in principle gotten there. But the rest is a mystery to me. The fresco, amongst other things. The bird was most certainly not there before the event. When I examined it, the paint was not even fresh, meaning it was done at least a month ago. Nobody remembers going up there and painting it, or seeing anyone go up there." "And obviously nobody has seen the dancer's face." "No, sir. Her face was veiled, and she had a mask over her eyes, a small black one. So what do you think?" The man leans back in his chair and looks at a spot on the ceiling that has suddenly become very interesting. "I think that you should put on a clean shirt, and go meet Lady Espiere before she makes it to the morning prayers. Assure her in the most encouraging tones that this indeed was smoke and mirrors, and that she has nothing to worry about. Meanwhile I might catch up on some sleep." "Does that mean you know how this was done?" "I haven't the slightest clue." "But--" "You better hurry up, the bells are about to ring any minute now." "But--" "Evil spirits do many things, but they do not deface gaudy works of public art. Does that provide you with sufficient comfort? Now hurry up. New shirt, Lady Espiere." The boy gets up in agitation, a dozen arguments crowding on his face but not making it past his lips. "You are still here. Why is that? The boy narrows his eyes. "There is something you're not telling me." "Why do you think that is?" "Because you do not wish to make it my business?" The man nods slowly. "Not yet, Robert." The boy tugs frustratedly at his hair for a moment, but then leaves the room in search of a clean shirt. The torrential rain outside has subsided to an uninspired drizzle, and the morning sun is painting pink one side of the great Cathedral. Not that he is alone in the room, the man slowly takes his hand out of the pocket of the obnoxiously decorated seahorse coat, which still hangs from the back of his chair. With two fingers he carefully picks up a small black mask out of the pocket and brings it to his eyes. The Cathedral bells begin to ring for the morning prayers. In a room on the top floor, somewhere in the Old City, a man who is not used to smiling is smiling at the ceiling. *** Equipped with eyes and ears, and wits of note, To spot all things however small or major; Superbly trained, your boy -- but still I'll wager ''He will not check the pockets of his coat! ''